


Intimations of Mortality

by Wilusa



Series: Finale Followups [2]
Category: Highlander: The Raven
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilusa/pseuds/Wilusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second of three very different sequels to the Raven season/series finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimations of Mortality

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Highlander, Raven, and their familiar characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions. No copyright infringement is intended, no profit being made.

_**Note:**_ _Second of three very different sequels to_ Dead on Arrival _. The first-written, "Lone Wolfe," was based on detailed analysis of_ DoA _. This story, on the other hand, was plotted - the bare bones of the plot, based on spoiler info I'd been unable to avoid - before I saw the season, and series, finale. And since this is my story, readers will have to accept my name for a certain U.S. metropolis._

x

x

x

 _  
**Paris**   
_

_  
**June 1999**   
_

The banks of the Seine were enveloped in Stygian blackness.

As black as the catsuit worn by the pale, grim-faced man who silently reconnoitered the length of the Pont de la Tournelle.

As black as the deed he was about to commit.

He paused at the center of the span, unable to suppress a shudder. Once, not long ago, barges used as houseboats had been moored at the nearby Quai de la Tournelle. More recently, the nightclub Sanctuary had enjoyed a burst of popularity under its latest management, and drawn crowds to the Quai d'Orleans. If he closed his eyes, he could still see its doors flung open, light spilled out onto the paving-stones. Light, and laughter, and throngs of revelers who sang off-key as they wobbled away into the night.

On occasion, he had sung and wobbled with the best of them.

But now all was blackness. The wharf area lay deserted, its few businesses closed and shuttered. Even the moon and stars had gone into hiding.

Yet he was not alone. Barge dwellers and club members might have taken themselves elsewhere, but one witness remained: the Seine. In the otherwise deathly stillness, its lapping against the bridge supports seemed a crashing assault on his eardrums.

 _I am the river_ , it reminded him. _I was here before the first cluster of huts that became Paris, and I will be here when Notre Dame has crumbled to dust._

 _I know what you plan to do. I know that you seek to make me accomplice to a crime, and I care naught for your motive._

 _Will I keep your secret? All I promise to keep is...my own counsel._

He shook himself, and strode briskly back to the quay. "All clear," he told a patch of darkness in which most men's eyes would have discerned nothing at all.

The patch resolved itself into six more black-clad figures, toting a heavy burden. They carried it gently and reverently, but with the air of men accustomed to stealth.

"Center of the bridge," their leader commanded. "We want the deepest part of the river."

They obeyed him without question. As they always had, always would.

He cast a final, furtive glance around. "Now," he ordered crisply. No one heard the prayer that formed on his lips as his men heaved the weighted body bag into the Seine.

Hardened though they were by years of clandestine dealings, they all flinched at the splash.

They hurried back to the river bank, tense muscles relaxing as it became apparent no one had heard, no one was coming to investigate.

Outside the darkened Sanctuary, their leader said, "Stop here." As usual, he had no need to raise his voice. The others stopped in their tracks, ready to do his bidding. To follow him, if need be, to their deaths.

"Never forget the oath we swore tonight," he told them. "Remember, we'd do the same for any one of us. And _he'd_ do the same for any one of us.

"We take this secret to our graves."

Hands reached out, groping, clasping, in a bond more sacred than friendship.

Six voices echoed, "We take this secret to our graves."

Then his operatives drifted away, darkness receding into deeper darkness, and Bert Myers had no companion but the river.

The all-seeing, all-knowing river.

x

x

x

 _  
**Rosemont, Illinois**   
_

_  
**March 2000**   
_

_Immortal._

Nick Wolfe had been sitting in his SUV for ten minutes, staring mesmerized at the pub sign.

 _Immortal._

 _I never noticed the name of the place, that night when it all began. When Amanda found me there, drowning my sorrow over Claudia's death, and I insisted she had to be a ghost. Later, she tried to convince me she'd survived Stanley Ferris's bullet because she'd been wearing a Kevlar vest._

 _I never consciously noticed the name of the place._

With a bemused shake of his head, he pulled out of his parking space and headed for the station.

x

x

x

When he stood facing the familiar door of the South Precinct, 52nd Division, he wanted to retreat to the car and stall for another ten minutes.

 _I am eager to see Carl, and I'm glad he wants to see me. But why here? Why didn't he invite me to his place, or suggest getting together at the gym or in a bar?_

The answer was obvious, and he knew he should be grateful. His friend was making an important gesture, demonstrating confidence in the man he was now, by taking for granted - or appearing to take for granted - that he'd have no problem with walking through the 52nd.

He took a deep breath. _Okay. Don't let him down_.

He pulled open the heavy door and strolled in. Or at least, he tried to convince himself his gait was casual enough to pass for a stroll.

 _Play it cool. Yeah, that's it, approach it like playing a role, going undercover for Myers. He says I'm a natural actor._

 _Who the hell am I kidding?_

A hush had fallen over the office when he walked in. Now, while he stuffed his gloves in his pockets and unbuttoned his coat, it gave way to a mounting crescendo of whispers.

As he debated whether to look around and say something, or ignore the stir he was causing and home in on Carl Magnus's closed door, his former colleagues took the decision out of his hands.

"Hey, Nick!"

"Good to see you, man."

"Didn't know you were back in town, Nick. You working for Myers again?"

"Shit, Bobby, of course he's working for Myers. I knew that."

"You're looking good, Nick. Put on a little weight, maybe?"

"Back living in your old digs?"

"We've missed you around here. Well, not so much _here_ as on the basketball court -"

Nick pumped the proffered hands, mumbling appropriate responses. He tried not to notice the false smiles, the anxiety that lurked in every pair of eyes.

Then, suddenly, he found himself nose to nose with a man who wasn't smiling. The worn, middle-aged face was flushed; the eyes revealed fear, but also a desperate courage.

"We've never exactly been friends, Wolfe," Harmon Frost said in his gruff way. "But I have to tell you...Beth and I were real sorry to hear about Lauren's death. You have our deepest sympathy."

As hot tears rose to sting Nick's eyes, he heard several quickly muffled gasps. The officers who'd been hovering near them backed away.

 _So that was a taboo subject. They were afraid to mention Lauren because they didn't know how I'd react, and only Frosty had the guts to follow his heart._

"Thank you, Frosty." Passing on the ritual handshake, he pulled the older man into a hug that took his breath away. "We had reconciled before she was killed," he continued. "Made it harder in some ways, but I'll always treasure the memory.

"As for our not having been friends, you're right, we weren't. But we weren't enemies, either - until you took your partner's death hard, and I was more interested in judging you than in trying to help.

"I'm sorry about that. I know now that I didn't handle Claudia's death well, either. What goes around, comes around."

Caught off guard, Frost gulped. Then he said huskily, "Don't be so hard on yourself." His eyes, too, were misted.

"Okay, I won't grovel." Nick summoned up a grin, and they exchanged good-natured claps on the back. "Do your kids, uh, play with Claudia's? No, I guess yours are older."

Frost answered the unspoken question behind the spoken one. "The Hoffman kids are fine. Their father hasn't changed - he loves them, just can't seem to make time for them. My two have sort of adopted them, like a little brother and sister. Sometimes I think Eric and Annie spend more time at our house than their own."

"Glad to hear it, for their sake. But I hope Dave Hoffman will realize what he's been missing, before it's too late."

 _When Claudia was alive, playing big brother to those kids was my job. I deserted them when they needed me most. Seems all I could think about was teaming up with Amanda to chase spies and assassins._

x

x

x

After he and Frost had agreed to "get together one of these days," he continued on to Captain Magnus's private office, knocked, and poked his head in.

"Nick! You're a sight for sore eyes. C'mon in." His longtime boss was on his feet, extending a hand. But the real welcome was in the smile that transformed his plain, weathered face.

"Good to see you too, Carl." Nick shook hands, then closed the door behind him and flopped in a chair. He kept his coat on, not expecting to stay long.

When he looked at the Captain of Detectives again, Magnus's smile had faded. "Nick, I'm sorry about Lauren. I always hoped you two would get back together."

"Thanks, Carl," he said awkwardly. "I received all your letters. I...wasn't up to answering. But I really appreciated your caring."

"Yeah, sure." Magnus made a dismissive gesture. Eyed him appraisingly. "You're looking well. And obviously doing a great job for Myers. You helped us, big time, when you found that kidnapped heiress and nailed the guy who'd snatched her."

"Glad we could pitch in on that one. Of course, we can only get involved when there's someone to pay us." Nick hated that aspect of his job.

"Right. But with our case load, we're grateful for everything you commandos-for-hire can do. All that matters is that you're on the right side of the law."

They chatted about work for fifteen minutes.

Then Magnus asked carefully, "How long have you been back with Myers now? Two, three months?"

"J-just about three." Nick stumbled over the words, sensing the conversation was about to take a more personal turn.

"He has as much faith in you as he ever did."

"Uh, I wouldn't say that." He shifted uneasily in the chair. "In the old days, if he took off for Europe, he would have left me in charge here."

"That's right, he didn't leave you in charge this time." Magnus leaned forward, watching him intently. "Do you know why?"

" _Why?_ I think that's obvious." He was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. "Come on, Carl. You know as well as I do, I'm lucky to have a job at all. _I spent six months in a mental institution._ "

x

x

x

Magnus didn't change expression. "That wasn't the reason."

Nick stared at him blankly, trying to think of a better response than "Huh?"

"That wasn't the reason Myers didn't leave you in charge," Magnus elaborated. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "He thought you might, ah, make a career move before he got back.

"Because he'd dropped in to see me. He told me you were completely well now, his best operative, and he'd trust you with his life - or anyone's. But he didn't think you were completely happy. He believed you still really wanted to be a cop, and he urged me to offer you your old job back."

The silence that followed was deafening.

At last, Nick broke it by stating the obvious. "He never said anything to me."

"No," Magnus acknowledged, settling back in his chair. "He didn't want to get your hopes up, in case I didn't buy the idea. I knew right away that I wanted you, but we agreed we'd keep it under our hats till I got an OK from the brass."

"And you actually did?" Nick was still dazed.

"Yup. I was straight with them about everything, Nick. They know about your breakdown. But they also know your record, and the real story behind Claudia's death. With all that, Myers' vouching for you was enough to clinch it."

Nick took a deep breath. By now his mind was racing. _How much does Carl really know? And how much should I tell him?_

When he met his friend's trusting eyes across the desk, he knew the answer to the second question. The only possible answer.

 _Tell him everything_.

"Carl." He licked suddenly dry lips. "How much do you know about what happened to me?"

"All I need to know," Magnus said kindly. "You were never really stable after Claudia's death. That's why you got involved with that woman." His eyes clouded. "The crook who thumbed her nose at us from Day One, with that 'Montrose' alias. Jesus!

"Anyway, I understand that you weren't yourself when you traipsed off to Europe with her. A partner's death can do strange things to a cop. And you never did anything illegal.

"But on top of all that, you and Lauren made up - and she got killed the next day." He shuddered. "Of course that was enough to push you over the edge! Could've happened to anyone."

Nick was resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. He gazed at those fingers, concentrated on keeping them perfectly still. "There's a lot more to the story, Carl," he said softly. "And you deserve to hear it.

"To begin with, I never told you the whole truth about the night Claudia died."

He heard the older man's startled grunt, but didn't risk losing his composure by looking at him.

"I said in my report that Ferris shot Claudia while she was trying to protect Amanda, I shot and killed Ferris, and Amanda took off. That was all true.

"But here's what I left out. After Ferris shot Claudia, he also shot Amanda." He grimaced at the memory. "I went by the book. Reminded myself Amanda was a civilian, whatever else she was. So I checked her out first - and couldn't find a pulse.

"It was only then that I went to Claudia. Like I reported at the time, she died in my arms. I sensed someone was behind me - and when I looked, I saw Amanda standing there, fit as a fiddle! _Then_ she took off."

He stole a quick glance at Magnus. The Captain was staring at him, open-mouthed.

"I didn't see her again till after Claudia's funeral. After I quit the force. The night we witnessed that murder in the alley - the old Navajo guy, remember?"

"Y-yeah. I remember."

"She'd found me drinking in a bar. 'Immortal,' that was its name." He shook his head, as he once again contemplated that bit of irony. "She tried to get me to lay off the sauce. I thought I was hallucinating or something, and pushed her away. But after we left the bar, we both saw and tried to stop what was going down in the alley. That threw us back together.

"Later..." He finally met Magnus's eyes. "She told me she'd been wearing a bulletproof vest when Ferris shot her."

The furrows in the Captain's brow smoothed themselves out, and he exhaled with an audible sigh. "Of course." He looked disgusted with himself for not having seen it at once. "In her line of work, owning a bulletproof vest made sense. And she'd known she might run into Ferris that night, when she tried to get her loot back from his car trunk. With the vest, she would have been badly bruised, maybe suffered a cracked rib or something, but she could have gotten up and walked away.

"You're only human. You were rushing, frantic with worry about Claudia, and you missed detecting her pulse. It happens."

"Right," Nick said quietly. "There's only one problem."

He took a deep breath, locked eyes with his former Captain, and spoke the words that would change everything.

" _I refused to believe_ _her_."

x

x

x

"You...what?"

"Refused to believe her." He willed his voice to remain steady. "Carl, I'd just lost my partner. I think, on some level, I needed to believe there was a person who couldn't be taken away like that. Couldn't be with you one minute, gone forever the next.

"I thought I'd seen Amanda die, then bounce right back. And I may, without realizing it, have been influenced by the name of that bar. 'Immortal,' remember?

"In any case, that was when I...went round the bend. I rejected the common sense explanation, rejected everything she tried to tell me, and convinced myself Amanda Montrose was, literally, _immortal_."

Magnus looked as if _he_ could use a stiff drink. "And this...delusion...continued?"

"Yes. That was why I pestered Myers to let Amanda work with me. I thought she was a partner I wouldn't have to worry about, one who couldn't be killed."

"For God's sake!" The veteran cop was turning several shades of purple. "The Montrose woman must have realized this. And she just let it go on?"

"Don't blame her, Carl. Yeah, she was aware of it. But she was trying to be kind. She knew I was in pain. And she had guilt feelings of her own to cope with, about Claudia's death."

Magnus's expression softened. "Huh. That's right, she'd always been a non-violent criminal. I suppose that shooting did have an impact on her."

"It did. And I didn't make her life any easier." He knit his brow, trying to sift through the welter of memories. "The details are hazy now. But at some point, my behavior got bad enough that she saw it as harassment. I think she was physically afraid of me. Yet she didn't want to hurt me by telling either Myers or the police.

"So she fled the country, to get away from me.

"And I followed her."

His cheeks were burning. He wanted to close his eyes and retreat within himself, far from the other man's piercing gaze. Or better yet, bolt for the door and flee.

But he didn't do either.

Instead, he forced himself to maintain eye contact with his former boss. _He'll never be my boss again, not after this. But that's okay. I couldn't have lived with myself if I didn't tell him_.

Magnus leaned slowly across the desk, reached for Nick's hands, and clasped them in both his own. "It's all right, Nick. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You were ill. And it's over now." He shook his head regretfully. "I was seeing you fairly often, those months you were in Rosemont. I never guessed anything was seriously wrong. Wish I had, so I could have persuaded you to get help.

"What happened in France? You can't have given Amanda too much grief. I know you resumed working for Myers, and she was your unofficial partner again."

"Yeah, that's right." Nick frowned. "Things settled down, outwardly, for a while. But my memories are a muddle. I was having so many screwed-up fantasies that I'm not sure what was really going on in my life.

"I know I did begin harassing Amanda again. Driving her nuts, with my delusion about her 'immortality.' On one occasion, she actually told Myers she was immortal! To humor me, because she was afraid of me." He gave a rueful sigh. "Myers thought it was a joke."

Magnus made a sympathetic clucking sound. "But Lauren's death brought your problem out into the open?" he prompted gently. "That's what Myers told me."

"Right." Nick steeled himself to tell the most difficult part of the story. "I'm not sure how much you know about that." _I'm not even sure how much_ _ **I**_ _know_.

"Lauren was with the International Justice Foundation. Set to prosecute a doctor named Julian Heller, the kingpin of a black market in human organs. Her life was in danger, and I offered to guard her. Hell, that's the sort of thing I do for a living! But after we made love, she was so afraid for me that she left me asleep and headed for court alone." A tremor finally crept into his voice. "Sh-she never made it."

Magnus nodded, looking faintly embarrassed at having to witness his friend's pain. "That's what Myers told me. Except for the details about the lovemaking, and her leaving you asleep. But I pretty much guessed it."

"Okay. After that...the specifics are blurry. But I know I freaked out because the people I cared for kept dying. First Claudia, then Lauren. With the kind of work I did, the way I approached it, I should have been the one who died!

"That had probably been a big part of my problem all along, feeling it should have been me, not Claudia. I was the one who'd pegged Ferris as a murderer, the one he had reason to kill. And then, Lauren... I should have been between her and any danger. But I seemed to be leading a charmed life."

"It's called survivor guilt." The older man's voice was soft, reassuring. _Like a shrink's_. "Every cop has been there."

"Not where I went," Nick said grimly. "I've told you I had that bizarre notion about Amanda being immortal. Carl, at some point I conceived the even wilder idea that I was immortal, too! I thought I was immortal, and most decidedly didn't want to be."

A look of horror flashed across Magnus's face, but he recovered quickly. "Nick, I'm appalled that you had to go through all that in a foreign country. I wish I'd been there for you."

Nick barely heard him. "I think I only developed that delusion after Lauren's death. But I'm not sure..." He closed his eyes, tried to clutch at the memories that danced elusively in the shadows. But they skittered away, as they always did. "Sometimes I wonder if I told her I believed I was immortal, and she went off alone because she thought I'd take insane risks with my life."

"Oh God, Nick -"

"And...and...Carl, I sometimes think I murdered Heller! I have these...flashbacks...about killing him, in an outrageously messy way. But reality and fantasy are all mixed up, I don't know where one leaves off and the other begins..."

He forced his eyes open, only to be wracked by a long shudder. He had to grip the arms of the chair to still his trembling. "Carl, to this day, I haven't dared to check out whether Heller is alive or dead."

Magnus had already composed himself, and spoke without hesitation. "It doesn't matter." He leaned forward, enunciating every word clearly. "I learned enough from Myers to know Heller was a monster. If he's dead, good riddance.

"If you killed him, you were ill at the time, not morally responsible. But you actually did the world a favor. So I'd advise you to forget it."

Nick gulped, and managed a grateful nod. He wasn't sure he could accept that advice, but he appreciated the thought.

"What finally happened?" Magnus asked quietly.

"H-happened? Oh. Nothing very dramatic. I just...lost it completely, and started raving to Myers about Amanda's being immortal, and my being immortal and not wanting it... I was totally out of my mind, and Myers had me committed."

"I'm glad he at least was on the scene to help you." The Captain's voice throbbed with emotion, and unshed tears glistened in his eyes. "What about Amanda? How did she take it?"

"Amanda?" Nick winced. "God, I don't know. I don't even know where she is now. Left Paris, I think. I'd be humiliated at having to face her again, and I'm probably the last person she wants to see."

"Hmm. That may be for the best. I still don't think you would've gotten involved with an international jewel thief if you'd been yourself."

"Probably not," Nick conceded. He was starting to feel better. And he knew he'd made the right choice in telling Magnus. His frankness would cost him a job offer, but he wasn't sure he would have accepted in any case. Certainly not at the cost of guarding a guilty secret.

 _Now, how can I gracefully end this? Let Carl know I understand the offer is no longer on the table, without his having to say it?_

While he was groping for the right words, Magnus said, "I'm glad you confided in me, Nick. But now, let's get back to the reason I asked you here."

With a wan but hopeful smile, he extended a hand across the desk.

A hand that held a seductively glittering object.

Nick's old Detective's badge.

x

x

x

Nick needed a full minute to absorb the implications of what he was seeing.

"Y-you mean...you still want me?"

"Of course I do," Magnus said patiently. "Nick, as I've been telling you right along, you were ill. That's in the past. The details are pretty scary, but they don't change a thing.

"Your doctors have given you a clean bill of health, and Myers confirms you're a hundred percent. The job you've been doing for him proves you're as good a crime-buster as ever. He may have been taking a chance when he rehired you, but I won't be."

Nick was still in shock. Just beginning to realize that he'd given no thought at all to whether he wanted the job.

Misinterpreting his silence, the Captain marshaled another argument. "Don't worry about being disloyal to Myers. He suggested this, because first and foremost, he's your friend, and he wants you to do the work you find most fulfilling. You can call him in Europe, and he'll tell you that himself.

"And," he added reluctantly, "I feel the same way. If you're really happier on the outside, or can't get past the Ferris cover-up, I'll understand. I want you back, need you back...but only if you truly want to be a cop."

Nick took the plunge. Said softly, "I do. I will."

Magnus heaved a sigh of relief. Then he smiled expansively, and tried to hand Nick the badge.

But Nick didn't take it.

"Carl," he said seriously, "I want the job. But...I need some time off first.

"The talk we just had made me realize something. I know I'm well now, but I can't accept those gaps in my memory. A whole year of my life, and I can only remember fragments...mixed up with crazy fantasies about swordfights, lightning bolts, dead people coming back to life..." He closed his eyes, and the dancing memories were there again. Taunting him, darting close enough to nip at his heels, then swirling away.

He opened his eyes.

Magnus was frowning. "Maybe you should let it go."

"No. I can't." Nick was sure of that now. "I thought coming back to Rosemont would clarify things, but it didn't. Might have been different if Amanda's sidekick Lucy hadn't taken off for parts unknown - she probably could have told me what happened here.

"But what's hardest to understand is that I spent six months in Paris, and remember almost nothing! I can't believe I didn't make a single new friend. But no one's tried to get in touch, and I'm drawing a complete blank."

"So you want to go back to Paris," Magnus said heavily.

"Yes. Just to visit, look around, find out if seeing it will trigger any memories." He got to his feet. "Only thought of it a few minutes ago, but I've made up my mind. I'm sorry, Carl. Any chance you can hold that job for me?"

Magnus also rose, wearing a wry smile. He extended his hand, with a good-natured, "What do you think?"

At the end of their handshake, it was Nick who held the badge.

x

x

x

 _  
**Paris**   
_

_  
**April 2000**   
_

Duncan MacLeod heard the quick staccato of his employer's tread on the stairs, and hastily backed out of the computer file he shouldn't be in.

 _I seem to have a knack for recognizing this guy's footsteps. Good thing._

 _Of course, it may have something to do with the fact that no one but the two of us has come up those stairs all week._

By the time Bert Myers strode into the office, peeling off his coat as he walked, MacLeod was frowning at a spreadsheet titled "Overdue Accounts." Myers looked over his shoulder and winced.

"I don't suppose any new clients have come out of the woodwork?"

"Nope," MacLeod said morosely. "No old ones rushing to pay their bills, either."

Myers grunted. Perching on the edge of his rarely-used desk, he said, "This business has its ups and downs. Most of us are used to it. I worry about you, though...with your background, you're probably bored out of your skull. And I'd hate to lose you. Believe me, things will liven up."

"I don't doubt it," MacLeod assured him.

He privately hoped he could get out of there _before_ they livened up. His only real experience in covert ops had been with British Intelligence during the Nazi era. He could have bought a new car with the money he'd spent to fake a career in the CIA - always in parts of the world where he wouldn't have crossed paths with Myers, who was ex-NSA.

And he was beginning to fear his investment wouldn't pan out.

A glowing recommendation from a mutual friend, Immortal bounty hunter Regan Cole, had enabled him to win the man's trust quickly. During his frequent solo stints in the office, he'd hacked into every computer file. Rifled every desk drawer, read - and neatly replaced - every scrap of paper.

To no avail. He'd concluded that if the information he sought existed, it was in the most secure hiding place of all: Bert Myers' mind.

x

x

x

At 10:00 p.m. they were still on the job, such as it was. MacLeod was sending polite e-mails to the clients with unpaid bills. His boss was going through a stack of mail-order catalogs, searching for the best deal on Kevlar leg armor.

Myers, who'd had dinner before coming to relieve MacLeod, had repeatedly urged him to pack it in. But the Highlander had a plan in mind, and didn't want to leave until Myers did. So he'd fibbed - claimed to have eaten a sandwich - and said he wasn't in the mood to spend the evening alone.

He hoped the rumbling of his stomach wouldn't betray him.

Myers finally tossed the catalogs aside, saying, "I've looked at these things so long I can't see straight. I'm through for the night. And so are you! That's an order."

MacLeod yawned and stretched. "Okay, I'm with you. But I sure could use a drink...or several. How about you? It's on me."

"Still don't want to be alone, do you?"

"Huh. Guess I don't." _He's a perceptive devil. I'll have to be extra careful._

"I've been there," Myers said quietly. Then he laughed. "Yeah, I'm game for a few drinks. Let's go."

As they went down the stairs, MacLeod decided to take a small risk. He asked in an offhand way, "Still no idea when this Sanctuary place on the ground floor might reopen? It'd be real handy for us."

"Maybe too handy," Myers replied just as casually. "Nope, I haven't heard a thing."

The men heaved twin sighs of relief as they stepped out into the night air. Both were accustomed to waterfront odors, and paid them no heed. But the breeze had a bite to it; Paris was barely on the threshold of spring.

MacLeod pretended to be struck by a sudden inspiration. "Hey, seeing as we'll have to go some distance...I found a place recently that I like a lot. It's called Le Blues Bar. Run by an American. Great music, friendly atmosphere. But at the same time, they respect your privacy. And, most important" - he snickered - "they don't water the drinks."

Myers chuckled. "Sounds good to me. You lead in your car, and I'll follow."

At his first stop for a red light, MacLeod placed a call on his cell phone.

"Joe? Are you behind the bar tonight?... Well, can you get over there, fast? You should be able to make it ahead of me.

"I'm working on a little project. You and I are going to get Bert Myers soused."

x

x

x

Fifteen minutes later, MacLeod sidled onto a barstool. He'd left Myers to hold their table - a reasonable precaution, at the rate the place was filling up.

"So that's Myers," Joe Dawson murmured. "I've seen pictures, of course, courtesy of Amanda's Watcher. But I somehow expected him to be bigger."

"Don't let his size fool you. After all the spook training he's had, I'd be willing to bet he's strong as an ox. _And_ would die before he'd crack under torture."

"Oh, so that's why you don't plan simply to torture him?" Joe rolled his eyes.

MacLeod opened his mouth to make a crack about Joe's booze being torture. But he didn't have the heart for banter. Instead, he heard himself say, "Joe, I have to ask. Still no word about Amanda?"

Joe was instantly serious. "No, Mac, of course not. I would've told you right away.

"But it's still possible she's just off licking her wounds somewhere, like we all thought after the fiasco with Wolfe -"

"It's been almost a year, Joe. And Amanda's never been what you'd call a low-profile Immortal."

"That's true," Joe admitted. "The Watchers have never lost her before.

"So we'll get Bert Myers soused, and you can try to find out what he knows. I suppose you'll want mixed drinks for the purpose?"

MacLeod couldn't resist a chuckle. "I'm surprised at you, Joe. Sounds like you've done this sort of thing before.

"Yeah, make it vodka martinis for Myers, gin-and-tonic for me. Keep 'em coming. Mix his as strong as you can, without arousing his suspicion. And I want mine weak, but they definitely have to be alcoholic. He might lean close enough to smell my breath, or even take it into his head to sample one of my drinks."

As Joe was about to turn away, MacLeod thought of something else. "And please give us some cocktail mix, or peanuts or something. I haven't eaten since lunch. With my stomach as empty as it is now, a wine _cooler_ might send me under the table."

x

x

x

When he and Myers settled in for their drinking bout, MacLeod thought he had reason to be encouraged. Having eaten his fill only a few hours earlier, Myers never touched the cocktail mix.

But as it turned out, the ex-spy held his liquor well. The only clear result of his not eating was that MacLeod felt sufficiently emboldened to order a roast beef sandwich.

The men matched one another drink for drink.

Joe, bringing the refills himself, rolled his eyes more frequently.

In time Myers' speech became slurred, but its content was as innocuous as ever.

MacLeod's speech was also slurred...and he wasn't sure he was faking.

Finally, in desperation, he decided to share a maudlin "confidence" of his own. "Hey, Myers. Have I ever tol' you why I quit the Company?"

"No. Disillusioned?"

"Not 'zactly." MacLeod hiccuped. "Well, maybe. But not wi' them. With _me_.

"I did somethin' bad, somethin' I foun' hard t' live with..."

"Around this time of year?" Myers sounded interested...and surprisingly sharp. "That why you didn't want to be alone tonight?"

"Uh...I guess so. Close t' this time o' year..."

 _Actually, the thing I find hard to live with happened in May. Paris in the spring. Life and beauty everywhere, except around me. I carried death with me like the Plague._

The confusion in Myers' eyes told him, to his horror, that he'd spoken aloud.

Somehow, he went on. "It was a Company operation gone wrong. Disguises, bad light. My fault, 's much as anyone's. But I killed one of our own guys."

Once again, he found himself spilling out something much closer to the truth than he'd intended. "Not just one of our own. It was worse 'n that. He was my protege, like a kid brother. I loved 'im..."

 _Oh God Richie, forgive me. Forgive me for killing you. Forgive me for **using** this, of all things!_

He wasn't completely sure he hadn't said that aloud, too.

"I quit the spook trade, vowed I'd never kill again. For over a year, I didn' carry a weapon. But that couldn' last, a leopard can't change its spots...

"This enemy was tryin' t' kill me. A guy named Marek. So I offed 'im, even though he'd jus' committed two murders an' I coulda let the cops handle it.

"An' once you start killin', it gets easier every time."

Myers said quietly, "Marek _._ Oh yeah, I remember that homicide. Right here in Paris. I was in the States at the time, but the details were so strange that a European contact filled me in."

MacLeod almost choked. _Why did I mention a name?_ _Even half-drunk, he has a mind like a steel trap._

Myers was watching him closely. "Marek manufactured toys, right? A cop found his office building unlocked one night, and went in to investigate. Marek owned the place, had every right to be there...but instead of explaining, he shot the cop dead."

The Highlander listened, stunned, as the ex-spy droned on, describing the incident in more detail than he could have.

"Marek was killed that same night, by _decapitation_." No slurring, MacLeod realized. He pronounced the dread word slowly and carefully, dwelling on each syllable. "He was known to be into swordfighting as a hobby. An employee was picked up for questioning because his car had been in the lot all night. At one point he claimed that after he saw Marek kill the cop, and a woman, Marek came after him, and he somehow got hold of Marek's sword and killed him in self-defense.

"There was no question Marek had shot the cop. The gun was still on him, and his were the only prints on it. But Forensics claimed his sword wasn't the one that had killed him. No other could be found, and the employee was given a lecture and released. Most people believed Marek really had been killed with his own sword, and the cops had made up an excuse to free the guy who'd avenged one of their own.

"With a _beheading_ , it would be hard to claim self-defense...

"But I had my doubts. The reason my contact had thought I'd be interested was that two men had just been beheaded where I was, in the States."

MacLeod flinched. _Yes, and_ _I know who they were and who killed them_. _Do you?_

He managed a weak smile. "You have a good memory. The Paris case - that employee was tryin' t' take the rap for me. I always knew he wouldn' have to. The police didn' mount much of an investigation, an' that _was_ because Marek was a cop-killer."

"Swords. Beheading. Jesus." Looking a trifle pale, Myers took a long swig of his latest martini. "Well, I'm glad you know how to use the damn thing. Never know what skill you may need in our line of work.

"And about your young friend, I'm sorry you killed him. We all make mistakes. I know I've made my share." Another swig of vodka. "Mostly in my love life."

 _Christ! I bare my soul, and his secrets involve nothing more than his love life?_

"Killin' my frien'...wasn' all I did. I covered it up. Tol' the Company he'd been killed by the North Koreans."

"Yeah? As long as that didn't lead to war with North Korea, I'd say it was a good idea." Myers drained his glass, then blinked as if struck by a sudden thought. "But...didn't you say you killed your friend in Paris, too? What were North Korean agents doing here?"

Before the flustered MacLeod could come up with an answer, he provided one himself. "Oh hell, I should know spies can be anywhere. Found a nest of them at the Romanian Consulate in Rosemont a couple years ago..."

And he launched into a story of his own. A story that involved Nick Wolfe and Amanda Montrose, but ultimately had more to do with his unwise choices in love.

x

x

x

Some time later, Myers - who'd become less talkative, rather than more - abruptly declared he was going home.

He made that announcement just as MacLeod was biting into his third sandwich.

 _But I couldn't offer to drive him, anyway. Not when I'm supposed to be at least as drunk as he is._

He swallowed quickly, and said, "I hope you're not going to -"

He'd forgotten to slur.

At least that proved it had been deliberate.

Mostly.

"Drive? Not a chance." Myers wore a good-natured grin. "Wouldn't make it outta the parking lot. I'm gonna call a cab. And you damn well better do the same!" He got to his feet with only a trace of unsteadiness, and started toward the door.

But after taking a few steps, he stopped and looked back. "You did say the drinks were on you, right?"

"Right, Myers."

"I thought so. I never let myself get drunk enough to forget the really _important_ things."

x

x

x

Five minutes later, having finished his sandwich, MacLeod collapsed onto a barstool. "Coffee," he moaned.

Joe had anticipated him, and was already bringing a steaming mug. "Careful, it's hot."

The Watcher waited until he'd finished that cup and was nursing a second. Then he said, "From your expression, either you didn't learn anything, or you learned something bad."

MacLeod looked up contritely. "I'm sorry. Your first guess was right - didn't find out a damn thing.

"And the maddening part of it is, I'm still convinced that if anyone in Paris knows what happened, it's Myers. I'm just not getting anywhere. To make matters worse, he may have realized I was trying to pump him.

"We came in separate cars. If he was already suspicious, he may have popped some kind of pill that would keep him alert for the next few hours, no matter how much he drank."

Joe looked dubious. "Does a drug like that exist?"

"I don't know. But if a real-life James Bond would have it, you can bet Myers does."

They sat for a few minutes in miserable silence.

MacLeod finally sighed and said, "At least we have time to talk now. What's the news about Nick Wolfe? Any change?"

"No." Worry was etched into Joe's earnest face. "Damnedest thing I've ever heard. Our people say he still doesn't have an Immortal teacher, isn't taking swordfighting lessons from a mortal, hasn't even bought a sword.

"Not hiding on holy ground, either. He's going about his day-to-day life in a completely ordinary way. Good thing he's in Rosemont - not much of a hangout for Immortals."

MacLeod nodded his understanding. Rosemont was a big enough city, but urban types in America tended to favor the two coasts. Besides, it was near an even bigger city, Chicago. Half the Immortals Wolfe had met in Rosemont in '98 had only been there because of Amanda.

Joe's frown deepened. "And even though he knew about the Watchers, he hasn't spotted our tails. Clearly doesn't expect anyone to be following him.

"That's what convinces me. Incredible as it seems, those shrinks succeeded in making him believe the whole thing was a mental aberration. The poor guy doesn't know he's Immortal!"

MacLeod leaned forward intently. "Joe, I want to get this straight. Are you absolutely sure he _is?_

"Don't get me wrong. I know he's at least a pre-Immortal. Liam Riley has confirmed that. But are you sure he's become a full Immortal?"

Joe didn't hesitate. "There's no doubt, Mac. Amanda's Watcher was very specific about what he saw in that warehouse last May.

"To begin with, there had been something wrong with Wolfe all day. Amanda had been practically holding him up. And when she was fighting Peyton, Wolfe barely managed to drag himself into the warehouse. But he saved her life...Peyton was confusing her with holographic images of himself, and Wolfe was able to shoot out the projector before he collapsed.

"Amanda killed Peyton. So Peyton's Watcher left during the Quickening, to file his close-out report. The normal thing to do in those circumstances. Both Watchers figured that if Wolfe needed an ambulance, Amanda would call one.

"She went to Wolfe after the Quickening. He appeared to be in very bad shape. And she picked up his gun and shot him! A minute or two later, he came to with a big gasp...just what you'd expect after an Immortal's first death. In next to no time he was on his feet, with no sign of any medical problem.

"He was arguing with Amanda, though her Watcher couldn't make out any words. Then he walked out, obviously angry, and Amanda didn't try to follow him.

"The one Watcher on the scene had to make a snap decision, and made the same one I would have. He followed Wolfe. But a few blocks from the warehouse, Wolfe jumped him and beat him up. Left him unconscious. So we lost track of Wolfe until Myers had him committed...and we've never found Amanda."

MacLeod pondered that for a few moments. "And the Watchers believe Wolfe had been poisoned?"

Joe nodded. "Initially, we thought there were two possibilities. The other was that he'd been shot, was dying from the wound, and Amanda hurried the process along to put an end to his suffering.

"But poison makes more sense. We know Evan Peyton specialized in poisons. And the night before, after Peyton visited Amanda at Sanctuary, his Watcher had seen him throw what looked like a tear-gas canister at someone.

"If Wolfe had died from a slow-acting poison, of course, he wouldn't have come back to life as an Immortal. That could explain his being angry with Amanda. Maybe they'd already discussed it, and he'd told her he didn't want Immortality. Or maybe he was just burned up because she'd let him suffer all those hours _without_ discussing it.

"Either way, he was royally pissed with her."

The two men lapsed into moody silence.

At last MacLeod said in a flat voice, "I want another drink."

His friend didn't move. In the same monotone, he replied, "You're not getting one. You've had enough."

"You're right." A long pause. Then, "Damn it, Joe, I just don't like _any_ of the things I'm thinking..."

x

x

x

The next afternoon found MacLeod at Ste. Marie's Rectory, conferring with Methos and Father Liam Riley.

The previous spring, each of the three Immortals had blasted the other two for not having been in Paris when the crisis occurred. Liam had been in Marseilles, organizing a teen basketball tournament; MacLeod in South America, belatedly breaking the news of Richie's death to mortal friends. Methos, who liked being a man of mystery, had finally revealed that he'd been attending a medical symposium in Switzerland, where one of his aliases was still licensed to practice.

By now all three had acknowledged that they'd needed to let off steam, and really blamed themselves. But Methos still occasionally grumbled that while they all cared for Amanda, Liam was the only one who was a friend of Nick Wolfe. Only he had known the young man was a pre-Immortal, with a lifestyle that made him a ticking time bomb.

At first they hadn't been seriously worried about Amanda. But now she'd been missing for almost a year. And Nick's behavior since his discharge from the hospital had shot down MacLeod's hopeful theory that he'd merely feigned what the doctors wanted to hear, to convince them he was "cured."

Their meeting got off to an inauspicious start.

"I took Myers to Le Blues Bar and had Joe give him stronger drinks than mine," MacLeod reported bleakly. "I hoped he'd tell me something while he was drunk, but he didn't. He may not have been as drunk as I thought. Now I'm afraid he's on to me."

He felt a curious sense of regret. He was beginning to realize he genuinely liked Myers.

Methos tried to be encouraging. "If he hasn't revoked your computer access, you're probably okay." But a moment later his face fell. "Of course, he may know you've already read everything he's got. If he's bright enough not to leave anything on disk that could damage him, he wouldn't really care. He might intend to keep you on the payroll so _he_ can spy on _you_."

After a minute's gloomy silence, Liam asked, "Have you learned anything?" Methos had volunteered to hack into the records of Nick's treatment.

"No clues to what's become of Amanda," he admitted with a sigh. "Or when Wolfe last saw her. I did find out Myers had Wolfe committed after he began insisting that both he and Amanda were Immortal, and he didn't want to be. He was adamant on that point.

"There was also a reference to Myers' having stopped him from committing suicide. But it didn't make clear whether he was just trying to shoot himself - to prove he was Immortal - or to cut off his own head, lay his head down on a railroad track or whatever.

"I suppose he could have gone nuts over simply learning he was a pre-Immortal. Does anyone know for sure whether he's had his first death?"

MacLeod was about to pass on what he'd heard from Joe, but Liam spoke first.

"Yes," he said softly. "I've never mentioned this before because...it's very painful. I was close to Nick, extremely close, I wouldn't hurt him for the world...

"But you probably should know this. It is proof, of more things than one.

"First...are you familiar with a female Immortal named Jade? She's a thief. Sort of an Amanda wannabe, for all she claims to be a rival."

Both his companions nodded and grimaced.

"The Poor Man's Amanda," Methos said dourly. "Amanda Lite. The woman always makes me think of an Elvis impersonator."

"At least Elvis is dead," MacLeod pointed out. "Jade wants everything Amanda has or wants, even her men. She never got this one, though."

 _Amanda usually seems like a scatterbrain, but every now and then she'll surprise you with her maturity, her depth of character, her simple **humanity**. That's why I love her. And those are traits Jade can't copy._

"I know what you mean," Liam said mildly. "But some say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery... In any case, she could have chosen a worse role model than Amanda. She's a non-violent criminal, and has a basically good heart.

"When Nick was committed, Jade and I assumed he'd just made the mistake of confiding the truth about Immortals to a man who couldn't believe it. So we hatched a plan to break him out of the hospital. The first hospital, here in Paris, before he was moved to the States."

"You... _what?_ "

That was Methos. MacLeod was too stunned to speak.

He tried in vain to picture this earnest priest, partnered with a cat burglar, staging a commando raid on a mental hospital.

It did not compute.

But now he could see that someone _should_ have done it, moved quickly to rescue a beleaguered new Immortal who might, at that early date, have had no mental problems at all.

 _It may not have been too late when I got back from South America. Jade should have come to me._

 _And if I'd been kinder to her over the years, maybe she would have._

Methos, always given more to practicality than to brooding, asked, "What went wrong?"

"The first step..." Liam's voice broke, and he needed a minute to bring it under control. "The first step was for me to visit Nick, to tell him what we had in mind. Didn't want him imagining _enemy_ Immortals were breaking into the place. And as his priest, I was probably the only person who would have been allowed to see him.

"The authorities were going to let me in. But when I reached a certain point in the reception area, I was close enough to sense Nick. Definitely a full-Immortal sense, th-that's how I know he is one..." His voice trailed off, sounding forlorn and childlike.

 _"And?"_ Methos pressed.

"And...he obviously sensed me at the same moment. He started to shriek!" Tears had welled up in the priest's eyes. "The ward must have had some soundproofing, but he was making such a racket it didn't do any good. Sounded like he was in agony. I wanted to die on the spot."

"You're sure it was Nick?" The older Immortal sounded more sympathetic now.

"Yes. I was tempted to leave right away, if only for his sake. But I didn't. Knew I had to find out for sure...

"I was left standing there for about ten minutes. After things had quieted down, a nurse came to me. I remember _she_ looked pale and stunned. She told me I couldn't see Nick after all, that he'd just had some kind of panic attack and was very upset. Not coherent, probably not capable of recognizing me. She confirmed he was the one who'd screamed.

"After that I got away as fast as I could. And it spelled the end of the plan I had with Jade. We'd anticipated a quiet break-in, to rescue a sane friend who'd jump at the chance to go with us. As things were, any attempt to snatch him would have been a disaster. Another trauma for him, even if we succeeded.

"And what would we have done with him? The Nick I remembered would have been able to take sensing another Immortal in stride. He'd had the advantage of knowing about us, knew we felt something when one of our kind was near...

"The worst part of all this was that I'd learned he really was mentally disturbed, in need of psychiatric help. Doctors who didn't believe in Immortals probably wouldn't be able to give him that help, but I couldn't see any alternative. He did need to be hospitalized."

 _And of course_ , MacLeod thought bitterly, _I'd managed to kill the one psychiatrist who_ _ **would**_ _have known how to help an Immortal._

His guilt trip was interrupted by the beeping of his cell phone.

 _Let this be good news, for once._

Two hopeful faces turned toward his indicated that his fellow Immortals shared his sentiment.

He answered the phone with his usual "MacLeod."

"Glad you have that thing, Mac," Joe Dawson told him. "Here's the latest. Wolfe is on his way to Paris! Only for a few days. But for the sake of the guy's mental health, it will probably be better if he doesn't sense any Immortals..."

MacLeod moaned. "I agree completely."

After signing off, he dolefully shared Joe's news with his companions.

Liam buried his face in his hands.

Reluctant as he was to cause the priest more pain, MacLeod had to go on. "Joe and I both think Nick's condition sounds like another form of Claudia Jardine Syndrome."

They all knew about Claudia, a brilliant concert pianist and relatively new Immortal. She understood perfectly well what she was. But she refused to learn to defend herself, because it was psychologically necessary for her to live on the edge. To be at all times in real, imminent danger of death.

Immortal friends had stopped trying to change her. Her eccentric habits would probably send her to an early grave, yet there was no other way she could truly _live_ at all.

"Nick is worse off than Claudia," MacLeod continued. "Since the treatment for his breakdown he's been deep in denial."

 _Of more, perhaps, than just being Immortal._

"That places him in constant danger. He can be sensed at a distance now. Headhunter types won't accept that he doesn't know what they are and will never be a threat to them. But clinging to his fantasy - that he's mortal, that there are no Immortals - may be _the only thing that will permit him to function._

"We obviously can't do anything about other Immortals. And Paris is a magnet for them. But at least the three of us can stay out of Nick's way while he's here, and hope for the best. I'll steer clear of Myers' office, call in sick or something. Liam, you're welcome to stay at my place."

MacLeod's barge was still on the Seine, though he'd long since moved it from its original mooring at the Quai de la Tournelle. Too many enemies had known where to find him; it hadn't been fair to innocent guests, mortal or Immortal.

Liam looked up, ashen-faced. "Thanks, MacLeod. I'll take you up on that, spend as much time as I can there. But I can't just abandon my church! There's no way I can arrange to have all my weekend Masses covered, on such short notice.

"Wait, though... " His eyes narrowed. "It shouldn't be a problem, because Nick was always a Sunday-at-eleven man. I can switch times with Father Chereau, who normally says the 7:00 a.m." He finally managed a wry smile. "There won't be any complaint from him. Priests are human. Just as averse to getting up early - or sacrificing their Saturday night - as the next guy."

As MacLeod gave Liam an encouraging pat on the shoulder, Methos deadpanned, "I never would have guessed."

x

x

x

"Say five Hail Marys," Father Robert Beaufort intoned, "and a good Act of Contrition now."

As the penitent rattled off the prayer in Texas-twanged English, the elderly priest made the Sign of the Cross and murmured the formula of absolution.

"Thank you, Father." Without more ado, the young-sounding woman - whom he'd pegged as a tourist - was out of the confessional and on her way.

No one was waiting on the other side, and no one came in immediately to take her place. Father Beaufort sat back, relaxed and smiling.

 _Not a serious sin all afternoon_ , he reflected.

That was unusual. Because of its location, St. Joseph's Chapel drew its congregations from travelers rather than locals. And sinners came from far and wide to confess, fearing recognition by their parish priests. Some had put it off for years, in the belief modern churches would offer no alternative to the new "reconciliation rooms" in which priests and penitents met face to face.

As Beaufort was about to begin his Rosary, rustling curtains heralded the arrival of another penitent. He laid the beads aside.

"Bless me, Father, I confess -" The male voice broke off, then made a mid-sentence switch to heavily accented French.

"English will do fine, my son." _I haven't heard a confession in French in the last two hours. Why start now?_

"Uh, thanks." As the man continued in English, admitting he didn't remember how long it had been since his last confession, the priest noted he seemed tense and nervous.

 _American? Or is there a hint of a German accent?_

"Father, you can't repeat anything I tell you, right? That Seal of Confession stuff I learned in school still holds true?"

"Yes, it's absolutely true," Beaufort said soberly. "No matter what you tell me, I'm sworn to secrecy."

"All right. It...isn't just a sin. It was a crime, too." The words came in a rush, as if to forestall what Beaufort might say next. "I can't, _won't_ tell the police. Even if absolution depends on it. But this has been on my conscience for close to a year. I keep being reminded of it, and...I just have to try to make my peace with God."

"Suppose you tell me what happened." Beaufort kept his voice gentle and soothing. "It may not be as bad as you think."

"Oh, it's bad all right. I covered up a killing."

The priest felt his nerve endings tingle. He'd heard sins of this nature before, too often. But they never ceased to shock. He knew he might be forced to deny absolution. Might be in danger himself, might even be unable to prevent more killings.

He wondered how many people were in the church. An outbreak of violence was a distinct possibility.

"A murder?" he heard himself ask.

"I...wouldn't call it that. This friend of mine...he was more than a friend, he worked for me. I felt responsible, because he wouldn't have been in Paris if I hadn't offered him a job here. A perfectly legal job - we're not criminals.

"Things happened in his life that made him go off the deep end. Lose his mind. He was crazy for a while. And when he was off his rocker, he...killed a woman. A woman he really cared for.

"I had to protect him. I still believe that! So I deep-sixed the body. Put it in a weighted body bag and threw it in the Seine."

Ravaged by guilt, the voice still throbbed with a desperate, defiant pride.

Beaufort allowed himself a long shudder. But when he spoke, his own voice was steady. "All right. I'll assume you're correct, and your friend was mentally ill. But he needs psychiatric help! Without it, he's a danger to himself and others."

"He's had help. I got him into an institution right away, and he had the best of treatment. Was hospitalized for six months, and he's well now, sound as ever."

Beaufort took a deep breath. "Did the doctors who treated him know about the killing? And how is he dealing with that?"

"No," the man admitted. "I never told anyone, and he doesn't even remember it. If he mentioned it to the shrinks last year, they probably thought he'd been hallucinating, and convinced him he had been.

"The woman was never reported missing. My friend assumes she left Paris. Like I said, he's doing fine...but he'd be devastated if he found out he killed her, and I won't let that happen."

"You're playing with fire," Beaufort told him. "The doctors who pronounced this man cured didn't know what they were dealing with. Didn't know he'd taken a life. And you yourself don't think he could handle the truth - but he could remember it at any time, in any situation. Then he might snap and kill again."

"Never!" Brooking no contradiction. "He only killed because he was suffering from a delusion. The shrinks found the psychological causes and cleared it up. He understands himself now, so there's no chance of a recurrence."

Beaufort wished he could feel equally confident.

"I believe you did what you did in a sincere attempt to help your friend," he said carefully. "But you were wrong. Facing what really happened would have been more traumatic for him, and he would have been confined longer - maybe a lot longer. But he'd be better off in the end. Mentally whole, in a way he isn't now.

"And society would be safer."

"He's not dangerous!"

Beaufort sighed, aware he was getting nowhere. "All right. I hope he's as stable as you say.

"But think of the injustice done that poor woman! No funeral service, no proper burial, just thrown into the Seine. And even if the Paris police haven't seen a Missing Person report, loved ones somewhere may be sick with worry over her."

This time the response was a moan. "I know. I liked her. That part of it is really eating at me."

"You could tell the police, anonymously, where to look for a body -"

"No. If they could identify her after all this time, my friend might be questioned. At the very least, he'd find out she's dead. And if they couldn't identify her, she'd just be buried in a pauper's grave - no better than where she is."

He had a point.

Beaufort pondered the problem, then said, "Here's a suggestion. I won't make it a condition of absolution. But...will you tell me the woman's name and where you put her into the water, and let me try to locate and inform her family? Maybe they could find an excuse to have the river dredged, without revealing that it's a body they're looking for.

"Or I could make them promise to do nothing at all. I'm sure they'd appreciate simply knowing, not being in an agony of doubt."

The silence that followed seemed interminable.

But at last the words came, slowly. "Her name was Amanda Montrose..."

"Montrose. She was French?"

"I'm...not sure. I think I once heard her say she'd been born in France. But she traveled a lot, may have had an American passport. Spoke English with no French accent.

"And Montrose may not have been her real name. She was, uh..." He mumbled something the priest couldn't catch.

"She was what?"

"An international jewel thief!"

Beaufort was rocked by that revelation, and found himself briefly at a loss for words.

But the man continued without prompting. "She'd reformed recently, or at least was trying to. Until he had that breakdown, my friend was a good influence."

"Do you know anything about family? If Montrose was an alias..."

"Never heard of any. She'd also used Devereaux. That may have been her real name...I don't know.

"One close friend was her former housekeeper, Lucy Becker. When Amanda came to Paris, she left the Becker woman to house-sit for her in the States. But she's moved on, no current address.

"And...I think Amanda was friendly with some priest here. Heard wisecracks about the criminal being best buds with a priest. But I never got his name or parish."

Considering the number of Catholic churches in Paris, that wasn't much help.

"How old a woman are we talking about?" Beaufort asked. "Can you describe her?"

"Early thirties, I guess. She was a real looker. Five-ten, good figure, short blond hair -" He broke off with a choking sound.

 _Can't blame him. He's thinking of how she must look now, after a year in the river._

"Where did you, as you put it, deep-six her?"

A muffled voice, distorted and barely audible. "Middle of...Pont de la Tournelle."

"So...I do have your permission to try, discreetly, to find anyone who may be looking for her?"

"Y-yes." Shuffling about uneasily. "I...I guess I can risk that..."

Beaufort knew the man was weeping. And wasn't the kind who willingly showed any sign of weakness.

"I...I c-can't stop thinking about my f-friend. He m-mustn't find out..." An unmistakable sob was followed by a muttered, "Damn." And then, a final outburst: "He had some crazy idea she was _immortal!_ "

As the tears evidently came in a flood, Beaufort heard the man lunge out of the confessional booth.

"Wait!"

The still unspoken absolution was all but forgotten.

 _Immortal. Immortal! Could it possibly be...? Like Duncan?_

 _I should have asked **how**...!_

Beaufort lumbered out of the confessional himself...but recognized as he did so that even an attempt to see the penitent would violate the confidentiality of the sacrament.

It was a moot point. The church door was already swinging shut behind a man who was undoubtedly younger and more agile than the priest.

Still in shock, Beaufort finally remembered to cross himself and whisper, "I absolve thee..."

x

x

x

Six hours later, another priest was so distracted that he kept slipping back and forth between two languages as he celebrated his Saturday night Vigil Mass. This service, like the Sunday-at-eleven, was supposed to be in English for the benefit of the many British and American students who frequented Ste. Marie's. But tonight, their adored Father Liam drew many a puzzled look.

Liam was still struggling to absorb what MacLeod had told him, after getting a phone call from a shaken Father Beaufort. Fortunately, the mortal priest had realized a woman thought "immortal" might really have been so, and the one living Immortal he knew - MacLeod - might be acquainted with her.

 _Why, God, why didn't you send Bert Myers to me? I would have known right away that he was talking about Nick and Amanda. He wouldn't have gotten out of **my** church without saying whether she'd been killed by beheading._

An ugly possibility tormented him. _Was it because, if it_ _ **did**_ _turn out to be a beheading, I might have...forgotten I'm a priest?_

He knew he wouldn't have turned against Nick. Myers, maybe. But Myers wasn't to blame. He was only a messenger. And if Amanda had been beheaded, her friends' knowing it sooner wouldn't have made any difference...

Except, perhaps, a difference Liam would not have welcomed. Some Immortal might have rushed to avenge the deed, and killed Nick while he could still plausibly claim not to have known the young man was deranged.

 _Is Nick safe from Amanda's friends, even now?_

It was time to distribute Communion, and Liam tried to concentrate. But despite his belief that he was participating in a miracle, the monotonous repetition of "Body of Christ...Amen" let his mind wander.

 _MacLeod's plan for tonight scares me shitless. But I **won't** chicken out!_

In spirit, he was already shivering on a cold, dark river bank. His fingers seemed to move on their own as he plucked a Host from the ciborium and extended it toward a waiting pair of cupped hands. He said automatically, "Body of Christ."

A firm voice responded, "Amen."

A firm, _familiar_ voice.

Liam came within a hair's breadth of dropping the ciborium.

x

x

x

A pall of darkness shrouded the banks of the Seine - and the heart of the black-clad man on the Pont de la Tournelle.

Now and again, some struggling moonbeam managed to peep through the clouds.

 _Like a diver's headlamp._

Duncan MacLeod knew intellectually that for now, his mission required the cover of darkness.

Yet he rooted for every moonbeam.

He needed no light to tell him the exact location of a clump of Immortal presence on the quay.

Only on the quay.

 _At times like this, I wish we could sense the temporarily dead._

His special faculty registered _more than one, fewer than ten_. But he knew there were still just five. He had come with Liam, and exchanged emotional greetings with the others as they made their appearance.

Now he chose to be alone. His comrades took for granted he was agonizing over Amanda...and that was true. Methos knew this bridge triggered painful memories of Sophie Baines as well.

But he was also pondering what he'd tell them, when the last of their number had arrived. How he'd impart the knowledge that would turn their world upside down.

MacLeod was already wearing most of his scuba gear, which was not particularly comfortable. Nor would it be easy to explain, if a police patrol happened by.

He squinted at the luminous dial of his watch. Tried to fight down the unpleasant thought, _Missed flight..._

If he was getting edgy, he could imagine his troops. Liam was a bundle of nerves tonight. Jade, bank robber Cory Raines, and professional gambler Kit O'Brady were always high-strung. All three were wanted by the law, and would have to answer for more than their wetsuits. Methos was doubtless counseling patience. But how long could they be expected to wait for a man they'd never met? A man only MacLeod and Methos would recognize...from Watchers' photos?

Fortunately, every member of the group had already known about the Watchers. All of them, even old friend O'Brady, had been appalled when MacLeod contacted them, explaining that he'd learned their whereabouts from his Watcher. But fears of a leaky Watcherdom had been forgotten when he told them why he'd called.

Jade had rushed to Paris from Marseilles, O'Brady from Monaco, Raines from Portugal.

And Amanda's oldest friend and lover, Jeremy Dexter, was flying in from England.

 _If he didn't miss his flight..._

Just as MacLeod was about to give up, he heard a car engine. He stiffened, then relaxed as he sensed the approach of another Immortal.

The vehicle came to a stop, and silence descended once again. The newcomer - invisible at this distance, in the dark - moved cautiously toward the waiting group.

MacLeod padded back to join them. Under other circumstances, the slapping of his foot fins against the bridge would have brought a smile to his face. _Even if they couldn't sense me, I'd be announcing my arrival like a belled cat._

He reached his little band while they were murmuring introductions. "Dexter?" He extended a hand toward the stranger, whose features were still a blur. "I'm Duncan MacLeod."

 _This is the first man I've met who was Amanda's partner in crime - and in bed - before I was born. If we'd met in any other way, we might have been rivals. But now I think of him as my brother, and always will. No matter what._

The handshake was quick and warm, the accent more decidedly British than his own. "Pleased to meet you, MacLeod. Sorry I've kept you waiting. They found a mechanical problem with the plane at Heathrow, after passengers and luggage were aboard. So there was a delay while everyone and everything got transferred to another.

"I've heard a lot about you - glad you called me in on this. But I still find it hard to believe. I've met Nick Wolfe, and I can't imagine him harming Amanda!" Dexter's strong voice trembled at the thought.

"I'm sure he wouldn't have, if he'd been his normal self," MacLeod acknowledged. "But nothing about this situation was normal.

"I've been waiting for you to arrive before we discussed it. First, though - did you lose your Watcher?"

They'd agreed they would all try to do that, with the exception of MacLeod himself. He had simply asked Joe to honor his request for privacy. He'd tell him the whole truth later, whatever it might be, and they'd make a joint decision on how much would go into the Chronicles.

"Left him behind in London," Dexter said confidently.

"Good." MacLeod took a deep breath. "All right then. If you want to, Dexter, you can be changing into your diving gear while I talk. I'm sure the one lady here won't be shocked - too dark to see much, anyway.

"First, let me review what I told you all on the phone. I was anxious and rushed, and you were taken by surprise. I want to make sure we have those basic facts straight before I...add something else."

x

x

x

Ten minutes later he asked, "Any questions on that much?"

"Only the obvious," said Jade. "Have you tried to learn more from Myers? Whether Amanda was shot or beheaded?"

"He's nowhere to be found. If any of his people know where he is, they're not saying."

"If Myers had seen something as startling as a Quickening, wouldn't he have mentioned it to Father Beaufort?" Cory Raines, trying to sound hopeful.

"Not necessarily. He's a hard character to read. Besides, if Wolfe did behead Amanda, Myers may have come on the scene after the Quickening."

"So what's the new information?" Methos - "Adam Pierson" in this company - asked impatiently.

MacLeod turned to the Immortal priest. "Liam, do you want to tell the others what happened in church?"

"All right." Liam's voice was shaky, but he tried to steady it. "I said a Vigil Mass earlier tonight - wasn't worried about Nick being there, because he'd always come during the day Sunday. But when I was giving out Communion, suddenly, there he was! Right in front of me. I gave him the Host, he took it without batting an eye. As if he'd never seen me before. And...that was that."

After some confused murmurs, Methos ventured, "You mean you'd been too distracted to sense him till he came right up to you? And he didn't react in any way to sensing you?" He sounded incredulous.

"No." The priest spoke more firmly now. "I mean _I never sensed him at all!_ Not even to the degree I did when he was a pre-Immortal. If he sensed me, he didn't react. But since I couldn't sense him..."

This time it was Dexter who broke the long silence. "So...are we supposed to believe this 'denial' he's in has enabled him to block his sensing ability? And even mask what other Immortals should be picking up from him? I've never heard of such a thing."

It was time to drop the bombshell.

"No," MacLeod replied. "That's what I thought at first, but I've decided I was wrong.

"The reason those two men couldn't sense one another is that _Nick Wolfe is not an Immortal_."

x

x

x

Methos was the first to find his voice. "That's ridiculous. You've told us a Watcher saw Amanda make him Immortal. Liam actually sensed him, that day in the mental hospital. And you yourself said he might have beheaded Amanda, and Myers could have arrived on the scene _after the Quickening_."

MacLeod didn't back down. "Yes, he was definitely Immortal then. But not now."

"Immortality can't be turned on and off like a faucet!" Kit O'Brady had blurted out what they were all undoubtedly thinking.

"I know it's unheard-of. But consider the only alternative, the one Dexter suggested. 'Denial' extending to a two-way blocking of...whatever it is we sense and recognize. If we accept that, there's something else that's even harder to swallow. I just saw the problem tonight, getting ready for this dive.

"We'd have to assume Wolfe has been in 'denial' - at least, denying his own Immortality - the whole time he's been out of the hospital. Working for Myers.

"Every one of us has the body of a healthy thirty-year-old, and lives his or her life accordingly. As does Wolfe. I ask you, could any of you go three or four months without picking up some cuts or bruises? Or at least strained muscles? Minor injuries for anyone, but they heal immediately for us.

"If anything, Wolfe has a more active lifestyle than we do. His job involves running, climbing, falling, tackling and fighting bad guys. He plays basketball for relaxation.

"So he's undoubtedly taken his lumps these last few months. Could 'denial' also extend to his overlooking all those rapid healings? I don't think so. There comes a point when a hypothesis has to be pushed beyond the limits of plausibility...and that's when it should be abandoned."

After a moment's thought, Methos let out a soft whistle. "I see what you mean," he admitted. "None of us had thought of that because we take quick healing for granted. And it didn't occur to the Watchers because most of them don't do anything more athletic than spy on us."

When no one else spoke up, MacLeod continued. "Maybe, during the first few months of Immortality, there actually is a 'window' - a grace period - when it can be rejected. If the will to do so is strong enough.

"It may only be possible if the person understands what he's rejecting. That would rule out most of us. I muddled along for two years before I learned what I was. By then I had no real desire to undo it. I'd been cast out by my clan - it was too late to go back."

Then he shrugged. "Or maybe Nick Wolfe is a fluke, unique in history." For some reason, he found that idea more unsettling than the other.

"So what do you think happened?" asked Dexter. "And when?"

Groping for the right words, MacLeod began tentatively, "I don't believe he had a true mental breakdown -"

Liam and Jade drowned him out with protests. Then Jade subsided, yielding to Liam. "Are you claiming he killed Amanda out of malice, and faked a breakdown so he wouldn't be held accountable?" The priest was almost sputtering. "Nick wouldn't do either of those things!"

"No, Liam." MacLeod hastened to mollify him. "I agree with you. From all I've heard about him, I'm sure he wouldn't.

"At this point, I still don't know whether he 'killed' her in the temporary sense or the permanent one. Either way, I'm convinced it was an accident.

"As for the breakdown - it wasn't what his doctors, or any of us, thought at the time. But he wasn't faking, and he was really suffering."

Wishing for better light so he could see his listeners' faces, he made a fresh start. "If Wolfe beheaded Amanda, I think that happened before any of the breakdown symptoms.

"We know he didn't want to be Immortal. Maybe his first response was to ask Amanda to take his head. When she wouldn't do it, he attacked her with one of her swords, knowing she had another.

"She couldn't be goaded into beheading him. But because she knew he didn't intend to hurt her, she made the mistake of not mounting much of a defense. He was a strong man, with no training in swordsmanship. If he made a wild swing in the expectation that she'd parry, and she didn't, he could easily have cut off her head - by accident."

Several Immortals nodded, and Dexter said in a tight voice, "Sounds reasonable."

"If he was tormented by a memory like that," MacLeod continued reluctantly, "it would help to explain his later partial amnesia."

 _And Myers' fascination with beheadings._

"But it's not necessary to believe any such thing.

"If you're like me, you were encouraged by Father Beaufort's report. At last we could explain why, if Amanda hadn't been beheaded, she hadn't turned up anywhere. That body bag may have been airtight - so if she came back to life briefly, she suffocated.

"Or maybe it wasn't zipped up tightly, and she could breathe. She may have played possum, waiting for a chance to escape unnoticed, and never gotten it. When the bag was thrown in the river, the weights caused it to sink rapidly. If it wound up zipper side down, she would have been trapped.

"After I talked to Father Beaufort, my first thought was that Wolfe had shot Amanda to convince Myers she was Immortal. But she didn't revive quickly. We've all had the experience, when we've been temporarily 'dead,' of staying that way for whatever length of time was needed. Only a minute or two if others were in danger, hours if the greater need was to avoid a public 'resurrection.' It doesn't always work like that, but more often than not it does. As if we somehow sense what the situation requires."

More nods of agreement.

"But Wolfe would have been new to all this, and gone bananas when Amanda didn't pop right back. I thought that alone could have caused his breakdown."

"You don't think so now?" Dexter prompted.

"Liam's news changed everything. Now any theory has to account for Wolfe's having made himself mortal, through sheer force of will. Only a sane man could have done that.

"Here's what may have happened - whether or not Wolfe had already beheaded Amanda. At the conscious, surface level, he was cracking up. Babbling to Myers about Immortality.

"At a very deep level, his mind knew what it was doing. He was determined to make himself mortal. But he needed to convince himself - at least temporarily - that there are no Immortals, that the whole thing had been a delusion. And he needed help in doing that."

 _Are these insights really mine, or Sean Burns'?_

 _Is Methos wondering that, too? How many of the others?_

"Subconsciously, Wolfe didn't want his boss to accept that Amanda or anyone else was Immortal. He wanted Myers to have him committed! So a team of shrinks would reinforce what he needed to believe."

When he paused for breath, Methos said thoughtfully, "A bit of a problem. Let's say he hadn't beheaded Amanda. Why would he have shot her? At some level, he had to know she was Immortal. As you said before, he would have expected her to come right back to life."

"That's why I said the shooting - if there was one - was an accident. Myers tried to wrest the gun away from him. Wolfe meant to let him take it. But it went off during the struggle."

After a moment's silence, Dexter said in a choked voice, "I hope that's what really happened."

"So do we all," Liam whispered. "Hope...and _pray_."

x

x

x

The little group stood briefly with heads bowed. Then MacLeod said, "It's time to begin our dive. Dexter" - he turned to the last arrival - "did you bring your own Aqua-Lung, and a waterproof headlamp?"

"Yes." The British Immortal was all business now. "I have everything."

"All right. That means we have full equipment for everyone. We can all go down at once, if most of you feel we should.

"But I think it would be a bad idea. We've all done some diving, but we were admiring coral reefs, not searching river bottoms. With our lack of experience, we'd get in each other's way. And if someone did find the body bag, it would be hard to spread the word."

"What do you suggest?" asked Methos.

"Send a team of three, at least in the beginning. Then, if necessary, the other four. If we still haven't found it, we can rethink what to do at that point."

There were murmurs of assent. Dexter said quietly, "You deserve to be in the first group, MacLeod. You were closest to Amanda."

MacLeod gave the other man's shoulder a grateful squeeze. "Maybe I was one of the closest. Liam was just as devoted, in a different way. But you had a place in her heart long before we did.

"How about the three of us?"

That idea met with universal approval, and the three-man team set about connecting their breathing apparatus and donning the last of their gear.

With his face mask in his hands, MacLeod turned back from the river. "One more thing," he said solemnly. "I want everyone to promise that no matter what we find, there will be no reprisals against Nick Wolfe."

Several now-familiar voices responded, "I promise."

But MacLeod barely heard them.

Because from the deeper shadows near the bridge, there came another voice.

"No reprisals against Nick Wolfe for _what?_ "

x

x

x

Nick saw the man in the diving suit go rigid, then turn slowly to face him. He stepped out onto the moonlit river bank, keeping his empty hands in view.

"Mr. Wolfe," the diver said evenly. "I should have expected you."

"You have the advantage of me." Nick kept his voice just as calm.

"Duncan MacLeod. We've never met, but I'm not an enemy."

"Apparently not," Nick conceded. "But what's going on here, and why would anyone blame me?"

"Long story."

"I don't have anything else to do."

He studied this man who wasn't his enemy. MacLeod appeared to be about his age. Tall and muscular - a bit shorter and slimmer than he, but the difference was inconsequential. Dark hair and eyes, oval face; strikingly handsome. His accent suggested a British origin, followed by long residence in the United States.

 _I'm sure he's telling the truth - we never met till tonight. He recognized me from photographs._

 _Not like the priest._

As if on cue, that priest detached himself from the knot of men - no, men and one woman - and came toward him. "Nick," he said gently. "I'm Liam Riley. We used to be close friends, and I hope we still can be."

His smile was as warm as his lilting brogue, and Nick found himself smiling back. "I'd like that, Father. I don't really remember you. I was ill last year, and there are gaps in my memory. But in church, I could see you knew me."

The Irishman looked stricken. "You could? I thought I covered it up. Call me Liam, by the way...

"Nick, did you follow me?"

"Yes." He was instantly serious again. "To a barge where you met up with MacLeod, then here. At first I told myself it was crazy. Why follow a priest, even if you had recognized me and tried to hide it? But I discovered there was another guy tailing you too, and you were aware of him and gave him the slip!

"And this group...if you'd gone right in the water, I might have decided you were just a bunch of eccentrics who got your jollies from midnight dips in the Seine. But you stood around talking so long, so earnestly, that I finally had to sneak within earshot."

"How much did you hear?" asked MacLeod.

"I couldn't find cover anywhere closer than the bridge, so all I got clearly was your last sentence. But that was a whopper. No reprisals against _me?_ "

MacLeod and Liam exchanged uneasy looks, and Nick heard muttering among their companions.

At last he said, "You're planning to search for something in the river. Something I put there?"

Silence.

"Not some _thing_ , then." His voice sounded hollow, but he kept it steady. "Some _one_."

He thought, inanely, of a children's game _. Am I getting warmer?_

"You didn't put anything in the river," MacLeod said curtly. Not meeting his eyes.

Nick recognized the evasion. "All right, I didn't actually put it there. But you are looking for a body, aren't you? The body of someone I killed?"

MacLeod hesitated a moment too long, and he blurted out his worst fear. "Did I kill Julian Heller?"

x

x

x

 _"Julian Heller?"_ MacLeod's jaw dropped, and Nick heard grunts of surprise from some of the others.

Whatever question they had expected, it wasn't the one he'd asked.

"Uh...Heller." Caught off guard, MacLeod was ill-prepared to dissemble. "Well, yes. As a matter of fact, you did kill him. But he richly deserved it!"

Nick swallowed hard. _So that, at least, really happened._

He felt his fingernails digging into his palms. But he locked eyes with MacLeod, and forced more words out. "Did I...kill him...by _beheading?_ With some kind of... _sword?_ "

The other divers had fallen deathly still.

"Yes."

A hand gripped his shoulder. Liam.

"And...and...was there... _lightning?_ Lightning that _went into Amanda?_ "

"Yes." He wondered at the pain in MacLeod's voice. "I wasn't there to see it, but there would have been lightning. And under the circumstances, it would have gone into Amanda."

Nick said softly, _"Oh, my God."_

He was grateful for the arm Liam slipped around him, but resisted the temptation to lean on the smaller man.

He closed his eyes. Some of those errant memories had settled into place. Yet he knew there were others that still defied him, lurking in dark corners of his mind.

Waiting to pounce.

He made himself look at MacLeod again. "Immortals. Are. Real."

"That's right."

"Liam is an Immortal." He had a sudden flash of insight. "You're all Immortals, aren't you?"

"Yes, we are."

"But I'm not." Nick lifted his chin with a hint of pride. "I was, but I chose not to be." _Is that my crime? Do they view it as treason?_ "I somehow...deactivated the gene."

The woman gave a nervous laugh, and one of the men guffawed. _"Deactivated the gene?"_

"Shut up, Adam," MacLeod said mildly. "That may be exactly what he did. Immortality could be controlled by a gene, even if the word is fairly new."

 _Fairly new?_

"You actually prefer being mortal, Wolfe?" The man called Adam - slender, British - was serious now. "No second thoughts, no regrets?"

"Nary a one." On this point, if no other, Nick was free of doubt. "I don't look forward to death. And I'd love to be young and strong for centuries - if everyone could.

"But I couldn't endure your kind of Immortality. The isolation, the deception, always having to live a lie with mortal friends...for me, that was too high a price to pay."

To his surprise, Adam nodded and murmured, "I understand."

"We all think that at times." There was a haunted look in MacLeod's eyes. "Just...not consistently. Immortals who can't take the loneliness don't last long."

Nick felt a chill, and unconsciously distanced himself from Liam. "Are you all older than you look?"

"Yes," MacLeod told him gravely. "Everyone you see here is at least two hundred years old, some of us much older."

"Oh, of course." More memories were returning. "Amanda's almost twelve hundred -"

Something pounced.

x

x

x

 _"Amanda!"_ The cry seemed torn from his soul. "God, no, no. _Did I do something to Amanda?"_

"We think you did, Nick." Sincere as it undoubtedly was, the kindness in Liam's voice reminded him of the damned shrinks. "But whatever happened, it was an accident."

"Accident?" He looked for confirmation to MacLeod, who wouldn't soften the blow out of friendship.

"That's right, Nick. We learned - indirectly, from Bert Myers - that you killed her. We've put together various scenarios, and we're convinced it was accidental. No one blames you.

"What we don't know is _how_ you did it. Can you remember anything? Having a sword in your hand, maybe?"

Nick was finding it hard to breathe. "You're...asking if I...took her head. The only permanent death, right?"

"Right."

"I can't remember." _Is that a bad sign?_

"Can you recall ever receiving a Quickening?" Adam's voice. "The lightning, going into _you?_ "

"I don't know!" Aware he was almost wailing, he fought for control. "I'm not sure, one way or the other. I'm sorry.

"If she was alive, wouldn't friends have heard from her? Liam -" Then he saw the answer. "Wait. That's why you're diving. You think she's in the river, with or without her head."

"Yes," MacLeod said heavily. "Myers covered up the death, to protect you. Used a weighted body bag. We only found out about it a few hours ago."

Nick felt his knees buckle. It was only when MacLeod and Liam grabbed him that he realized he was in tears - and on the verge of passing out.

x

x

x

Ten minutes later he'd pulled himself together. The dive still hadn't begun; all the Immortals were showing more concern for him than he thought he deserved.

"Ironic, isn't it?" _Hypocritical? Despicable?_ "I rejected Immortality because I couldn't take the lies and deception. But to do it, I deceived _myself_ , big time."

"Only temporarily," MacLeod reminded him. "Like using a crutch while recovering from an injury. There was never any doubt you'd throw the crutch away when you could manage without it."

"I'd like to go down with the divers, Mac," he said quietly.

The man he hoped was a new friend showed no surprise. "I thought you might. Any scuba experience?"

"Yes." He suppressed a shudder. "I've even searched a river bottom for a body. Found it, too."

"Huh. That means you're better qualified for the job than any of us."

He heard the unspoken qualification. _If you're up to it emotionally._

"I'm officially volunteering."

"Okay, you're in. There's just one little problem..."

Belatedly, he saw it. He didn't have his own diving gear, not even a wetsuit.

And the Immortal nearest his size was their leader. As he knew now, Amanda's longtime lover.

Duncan MacLeod.

"I can wait, Mac," he said hastily. "You go with the first team."

"No. You really _want_ to get down there, don't you?"

"Y-yes."

"Then it's settled." MacLeod began peeling off his suit. "Liam's first team, too. And Jeremy Dexter - Dexter, do you need to talk about this with Nick?"

Nick studied the youthful face that bobbed up beside him as he stripped. "We've met before."

"You're right, we have." Dexter managed a smile. "Remember any details?"

"No. Sorry."

"We, uh, didn't hit it off at first. May have had something to do with you being a cop and me a robber. But we wound up cooperating. I respect you."

"I respect you too." Nick held out his hand, and knew the firm clasp was a pledge of friendship. "Time to cooperate again."

"Nick," MacLeod murmured as he handed over the face mask. "If...if she really is dead, please spend some time with me before you leave Paris. There's an accidental killing _I'm_ struggling to deal with. Maybe we could help each other. At least you wouldn't be alone."

"I will, Mac," he promised, with a lump in his throat. "Thank you."

x

x

x

He pulled on the ungainly foot fins. Stood, and paused to gaze out at the murky river. _I'm coming, Amanda._

MacLeod, at his elbow, said softly, "Last chance to change your mind, my friend. Are you sure you can handle... _whatever_ you may find?"

He took a deep breath.

Said, "I can handle it."

Then he donned the rest of his gear, set the headlamp for wide beam, and plunged into the Seine.

x

x

x

The End

x

x

x

 _ **Author's Afterword:**_ I always hated the name "Seacouver," and I thought "Torago" and "Chironto" (both of which I saw used by fans), were even worse. Since the show's writers had established Amanda's alias as "Montrose," I decided that in my universe, I'd name this imagined twin city of Chicago "Rosemont" - the idea being that she had, in effect, thumbed her nose at the local police by choosing such an obvious alias.

Much later, I learned Chicago has a suburb named Rosemont! Now I'm wondering whether the writers knew that, and it really did influence their choice of Amanda's alias. An inside joke, that only viewers in the Chicago area would be likely to catch?


End file.
